The Very Last Night
by Setep Ka Tawy
Summary: Sherlock receives a most unexpected text - a plea for help from The Woman. And his reaction to what he finds is something even he doesn't understand. Warning for character death.


**Author's Note:** I'm really not sure where this one came from - just sort of popped into my head, and things went from there. First time I've written Irene; not sure how well I did, but eh. This does take place post-Reichenbach, but it's not really relevant to the actual story.

This may turn into a two-shot, the second part being when Sherlock returns to the flat. We shall see.

Enjoy!

**Warning:** Character death.

* * *

**The Very Last Night**

It was going on ten o'clock in the evening when the text came.

Sherlock was sitting in John's usual armchair, his flatmate having gone out several hours previously for a consulting-detective-free evening at the pub with Stamford. Sherlock rather hoped that his friend would be back before long, not due to any sense of loneliness, but simply because the longer John remained absent, the higher the likelihood that he would be a bit unsteady in both mind and body when he returned. Slightly-drunk John was not something with which Sherlock really felt like coping at the moment; he was in the state of mind that would quickly grow resentful if the status quo of current tranquility was disrupted. He wanted John back so that the man would go to bed, soberly and quietly, and then Sherlock would be able to relax without needing to anticipate.

This hopeful thought process was rudely interrupted by Sherlock's phone going off. He let out a soft huff of annoyance. Probably John, texting him for some ridiculous and completely illogical reason, all because he'd had one too many. The last time it had happened, John had snapped photos of every remotely attractive girl in the pub and sent them to Sherlock, asking him to deduce which would be the best choice for a chatting up and potential date. Sherlock had not bothered to reply.

Carelessly, he pulled his mobile from the inside pocket of his jacket and glanced at the number. He blinked, and then his brows drew together in a deep frown of confusion. Over a year of total (though perfectly understandable) silence, and now – why? He was actually surprised that she still had the same number. Then he amended that thought – she probably had several.

_help me mr holmes_

Sherlock stared at the simple message. Odd, he thought, how there was no capitalisation or punctuation. Either she couldn't be bothered to use it – unusual – or she didn't _want_ to use it – even more unusual – or she was unable to do so – downright strange. He considered for a long moment, then sent back an even reply.

_What sort of help did you have in mind?  
SH_

The wait for a response was considerably longer than he expected, and all that came was an address. Interesting. No flirting this time, no teasing or double-talk, only the barest essential information. It was certainly a change from their previous interaction.

He glanced at his watch. John might not be back for awhile yet, and curiosity was rapidly overcoming any inclination to wait for him. He would just have to manage the aftereffects of a night out on his own. Sherlock quickly pulled on coat and scarf and headed for the door, tucking his phone back into his pocket as he went.

* * *

Sherlock let himself in through an inconspicuous side window after noting the marks on the back door that indicated it had been recently forced open, with no apparent attempt at finesse. The room in which he found himself was dark and silent. He remained quite still for a long minute, listening intently as his eyes adjusted to the dimness, but his senses were greeted with neither sound nor movement.

Pulling his mobile from his pocket again, he used the device like a torch, holding its bright screen low before him to illuminate his surroundings. Elegant furnishings, nothing out of place here…. Moving into the adjoining hallway, he proceeded to quietly make his way through the rest of the large house. At the foot of the stairs he found a few traces of soil, clearly trailed in from the back door. Tense and alert, he moved up to the second floor landing, his mind afire with the need to discover what this was about.

It was obvious that she had been expecting company, he mused, and not in any "invited over for tea" sense. No lights switched on, and yet no disturbances in any of the rooms he had passed through; she had been trying, it seemed, to make it appear as though the house was deserted, a ploy which had apparently failed. The question now was, had she laid in place other plans on which to fall back? Almost certainly yes. But there was no guarantee that they had worked, at least not yet…. All Sherlock knew for certain was that the intruders had come and gone.

He stopped then, looking at the splintered edge of the door nearest him, almost closed but not quite. Glancing down, he saw a smudge of something dark on the floor. It was patterned like the tip of a heavy boot. He raised his head again, running a finger lightly along the edge of the door, and then his ears picked up the sound of laboured breathing from within.

Slowly, Sherlock eased the door open. The screen of his phone flashed blindingly around the room beyond, and the light fell onto a figure that was propped desperately against the foot of the bed. He stood there for a moment, then abruptly strode forward, pulling off his coat and dropping to one knee beside the nearly prone form.

"This is different," he murmured. His eyes scanned her up and down in the light of his mobile, flickering slightly as they noted the blood soaking through her clothing on one side of her chest. "Anywhere else?"

Irene Adler dragged her head around to regard him, and her expression was remarkably unreadable behind the spasms of pain. "I think that's enough, don't you?" she whispered.

"Probably," agreed Sherlock. He made as though to check the wound, but Irene's hand caught his. He glanced down at it, then over at her, his head tilted questioningly.

"Don't… bother," she said, by way of explanation. "I know… when I'm dying…"

Sherlock stared at her for a long moment, then eased his hand from her grip and proceeded inspect the wound anyway, with a look on his face that seemed to dare her to protest again. It didn't take long for him to recognise that she had spoken truly; the bullet was lodged far too deep and already he could see that she had lost too much blood. He didn't ask why she had texted for help if she had known the situation was hopeless; instead, in a determined, if futile gesture, Sherlock untucked his scarf and pressed it to Irene's chest. The grey blue fabric almost instantly darkened.

"What are you doing?" There was a note of confusion in her soft voice. Sherlock adjusted the scarf slightly, eliciting a low intake of breath from the injured woman, but he forced himself to ignore it and remain clinical.

"Keeping up appearances," he replied shortly, and there was something sardonic in his tone. From Irene's expression, she hadn't missed it, either.

"For whom?" she asked.

Sherlock did not reply. A long silence ensued, broken only by her ragged breathing. Sherlock looked her over, taking in her paling face, her dark hair falling from its bonds.

"Are you going to tell me what happened?" he asked finally. He could feel the hand at her chest warming slightly as her blood met his skin.

"I shouldn't need to," she whispered back. "All the blood… rather gives it away."

Sherlock's features tightened slightly. "You got shot," he said. "Why?"

Irene seemed to struggle over the words for a few seconds; with an effort, she met his gaze. "Someone finally caught up with me," she replied, and there was a strange acceptance in her voice that stirred something close to anger within Sherlock.

"I deduced as much," he said, with heavy irony. "Who was it?"

A small, knowing smile lifted her full lips. "Does it matter anymore?"

"It might."

"Why, Mr Holmes? Are you going to nobly avenge my death?" Her voice was slightly breathless.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at that, but did not respond; and his lack of reply seemed to amuse her a bit.

"I'd forgotten," she said after a moment, searching his eyes with her own, "how funny you are, Mr Holmes."

"I wasn't trying to be," Sherlock pointed out. He found himself only half-surprised that, even while dying, Irene Adler could find the will to tease him.

"That's… what's funny. You don't… even try."

A look of confusion crept across Sherlock's face. "I'm not sure I follow," he said slowly, frowning.

Her light chuckle turned quickly into a pained, shallow cough. Sherlock immediately put his free hand to her back and, as gently as he could, shifted her shaking body in an attempt to ease her breathing. He knew it was pointless, really; there was nothing he could do, in the end, that would make a difference. But still… he did it. He wasn't even sure why.

Irene gave him that strangely knowing look again, but all she said was, "What shall we talk about, Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock blinked, and returned her look with a questioning one of his own. "You want to make idle, boring conversation?" he asked, with quiet incredulity.

"Conversations with you… are never boring," she replied softly, flinching slightly in response to a spasm of pain. "As long as we're here…. We may as well pass the time…" Her tone was almost pointed.

"I'm flattered," said Sherlock, and he paused before continuing, "But it really isn't my area of expertise."

Irene managed a small smirk. "I'd offer to talk you through it," she breathed, "but I'm not sure I've got the time."

Sherlock didn't really know what to say to that. His eyes moved from her face to her chest again, to where the blood was still oozing from beneath the layers of fabric pressed against the wound. He privately agreed with her – he was rather surprised that she had managed to hold out for this long, still relatively coherently, no less. But then, nothing about The Woman was really very predictable.

A light touch on his arm made him start and glance down. He watched as Irene's fingers grasped lightly at his sleeve, before looking quickly into her eyes, and what he saw there took him by surprise. Her gaze was strangely bright, and almost challenging. He looked away again, even as her touch moved up his arm and across his jacket.

A strange shiver went through him as he felt her fingers brushing at his chest, almost immediately followed by a wave of unfamiliar feelings which he found shockingly difficult to identify or explain. What was wrong with him? He closed his eyes briefly, trying to sort them out, but his concentration was broken by Irene's soft voice.

"Are you afraid to get closer, Mr Holmes?"

His eyes flicked back to her again, his brow furrowed. "Why," he asked, very slowly, as though unsure of his own words, "would I be afraid… to get closer?"

He felt her hand drop for a moment to rest on his own. "You're trembling," she whispered.

He focused on his hand for a moment, and was startled to find that she was right. Not only that, he could feel his pulse beating slightly faster now, his breath more shallow. He shook himself mentally, trying to understand this unexpected reaction. She had been the one who succumbed to sentiment, he reminded himself. He had never fallen into that trap, not even come close; he had known better, whatever John and Mrs Hudson might have thought (and he had been able to tell that they were thinking along those lines. Obviously).

"You're dying," he said finally, matching her low tone and sounding as though he was merely reciprocating with a similar remark. He drew in his breath sharply, but quietly, as she reached up with difficulty, her fingertips ghosting across his cheek and lips.

"Mr Holmes… if it was the end of the world… the very last night…"

Sherlock turned his eyes upward for a moment as she whispered the familiar words. He moistened his lips slightly before speaking.

"Bit late for that, isn't it?" he asked rhetorically.

She forced out a quiet laugh. "You're avoiding my question," she accused.

"Well," said Sherlock, eyeing her with a strangely shadowed expression, "you didn't really expect me to answer, did you?"

"No… I suppose not…" Irene slumped back against the bed, letting her hand fall again. Her breathing was becoming fainter, her voice more weary. "But a girl can hope…" Her eyes fluttered closed.

Sherlock, watching her, was grasped by a sudden surge of what could only be called admiration. Even now, Irene managed to gather the remnants of her seductive wit and resourceful strength. She was refusing to let death have the final word, even if she was fated to lose out in the end. But at the same time she had not tried to salvage a hopeless situation; instead she maintained her dignity, recognising defeat in the face of a more skilful opponent, and that above all else was what elevated her in Sherlock's eyes, the reason why he held such a keen respect for this remarkable woman.

Almost tentatively, Sherlock reached out and brushed back the sleek hair from where it had fallen over her wan face. "I'm not afraid," he said, very softly.

He saw a flash of surprise in her eyes as he leaned down and brushed his lips across her cheek. For one fleeting moment, he had a clear idea of why he had done it; but then that moment was swept away into confusion as Irene turned her head, and suddenly she was kissing him, her lips burning against his own, and Sherlock found himself inexplicably paralysed –

She pulled away suddenly, and after a few seconds, Sherlock realised that she had fallen back due to the sudden expenditure of energy that was no longer there. Her eyes were closed again; he touched two fingers to the inside of her wrist and found only the faintest fluttering of a pulse. That strange combination of emotions tugged at him once more – sorrow? Regret? Pity? Anger?

"Why me?" His voice sounded hollow in the near-silence. "Why text me?"

There was an agonised pause before any reply came. "I like detectives."

Sherlock shook his head slowly, still feeling somewhat numb. "You astonish me," he said in a low voice. "At least a third of what you've told me, you've already said before. Never a straight answer."

A very faint smile. "Keeping up appearances."

Sherlock returned the smile, but it was empty. Silence fell again, breathless and intense.

Irene looked up at him finally, eyes only half open now, lines of pain marring her smooth skin. "Will you miss me, Mr Holmes?" she murmured.

Sherlock held her gaze, hardly noticing how he was biting his own lip. Another long moment passed before he could recognise his own answer. "Yes."

A curious sort of satisfaction twitched her lips into a wider smile. "Good," she breathed. "There might be… hope for you yet."

"I don't follow you." Sherlock was puzzled to find the smallest hint of a tremour in his voice.

"I wouldn't have expected you to." Irene's features contorted in pain for a moment, her gaze flickering as she looked up at him. "It's been a pleasure," she whispered, so softly that Sherlock could hardly make out the words. "Goodbye, Mr Holmes."

When Sherlock took her wrist in his hand again, her pulse had already gone still.

Several minutes passed before he moved from beside her body. Slowly, he rose to his feet, hardly aware of the protest of legs that had cramped from kneeling, or the copious bloodstains that were now spread across his clothing. One hand remained clenched around the sodden scarf that had failed to do anything more than cover the bullet wound in Irene's chest. His mind felt oddly numb as he fumblingly pulled on his coat again. He stood there, swaying slightly, breathing shallowly, eyes locked on the once again still figure of The Woman.

Sherlock's face twisted suddenly, his eyes clenched shut, and then without speaking he pivoted and disappeared through the doorway. Pulled by his bloodstained hand, the door closed softly behind him.

* * *

Reviews are always welcome! May the Force be with you.


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